


And still those stolen moments

by Ruta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Before Battle, F/M, Feelings, Season Finale, Slow Burn, Stolen Moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 16:33:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18578320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruta/pseuds/Ruta
Summary: "When it's all over," he tells her with his eyes closed, deeply inhaling into her hair, "I'll tell you a story about dragons and wolves. I think you'll like it."Sansa nods. She is slightly shivering in his embrace, her hands clawed at the front of his jerkin. She turns her head enough to rub her cheek against his, her lips pressed against his jaw. "And I will tell you a story of lions and roses and a wolf that had to be a dove and a little bird."(Before the battle. I understand the narrative choice to make each Stark close his/her path, but I also wanted a moment like this)





	And still those stolen moments

A faint shadow stirs slowly through the dusk. Around, in the dim light, figures and shapes are moving. Only hers is still now, like she is waiting for him. 

In the orange gloom of the torches, Sansa's face is less visible than he would like. Not that light is really necessary. Jon would recognize that expression only by the voice she's talking to him.  
  
"You're gonna be safe," she whispers.  
  
His hands are already on her shoulders, to anchor both to reality and as a comfort. She doesn't show that she is scared, but it isn't the first time that they say goodbye before a battle. He knows her enough to tell that the more distant and cold she sounds - almost blank, like a death mask -, the more vulnerable and upset she is in reality. She might think she's being emotionally detached, but he has learned to read between the lines. What she is telling him, neither more nor less, is this: _I can't lose you too_.  
  
"I will," he promises. Or at least, he promises to try. He tightens his grip a little harder. It can't be pleasant, but Sansa doesn't complain. She seems reticent to let him go almost as much as he is. "You too. Stay in the crypts and-" he can't finish. It could be the last time they see each other, the last time they speak to each other and it has to happen practically in the dark, without him having the chance to really see the sky-blue of her eyes. He sees the shape of her mouth, the pronounced curve of the cheekbones, but not the colors. Sansa is a shadow in the night and damn it, it shouldn't be like this the last time he sees her. It will have to be enough.  
  
"We must believe that we will win." Sansa searches for his hand. Like him she doesn't wear leather gloves and unlike his fingers that keeps a trace of heat, hers are cold as ice. "We didn't come all this way to die now. After tonight they'll write songs about the men who defeated the Night King. You will never be forgotten."  
  
Jon thinks of the thousands of men waiting for his command, who have placed their trust in him one last time at least. Then he thinks of Arya and concern squeezes his heart in a painful grip.  
  
"And about the women," he corrects her kindly.  
  
"And the women."  
  
"Sansa, I-" he isn't good with farewells.  
  
_We should have gone South._ Run away and never look back. The words resemble terribly the last ones said to Ygritte and in the end is the main reason why he decides not to pronounce them.  
  
Jon swallows, but can't think of anything else to say. Everything else would seem a confirmation that he accepted the end.  
  
Sansa seems to sense it. "We will survive," he hears her say as a promise, like a prayer. Jon would like to have her hope, the same optimism. Both are a choice, he knows it well. It's so hard to wait for dawn in the darkest night. It is much easier to drown in the uncertainty of tomorrow. "We will because you're every bit like Father, brave like Robb and a thousand times smarter."  
  
Sansa hesitates. When she speaks he just has to thank the instinct that prompted him to lean forward if he can catch the next words, because her voice is suddenly so low and sweet, like the echo of a song carried by the wind.  
  
"And I have faith in you."  
  
The admission is unexpected, quiet. The resulting warmth is immediate, it spreads inside him like a welcoming embrace. It is no coincidence, it cannot be a coincidence, that she has chosen to say that. A simple phrase, but contains the promise of something bigger, more important. He remembers another time. _I'm not a Stark. You are to me_.  
  
He can't help but express his gratitude by taking her face in his hands and tenderly kissing her forehead.  
  
"When it's all over," he tells her with his eyes closed, deeply inhaling into her hair, "I'll tell you a story about dragons and wolves. I think you'll like it."  
  
Sansa nods. She is slightly shivering in his embrace, her hands clawed at the front of his jerkin. She turns her head enough to rub her cheek against his, her lips pressed against his jaw. "And I will tell you a story of lions and roses and a wolf that had to be a dove and a little bird."  
  
Maybe it's because of the closeness or maybe it's because they started to light the fires on the turrets, but when they disentangle from each other's embrace he's able to see her better. A fleeting glance, a stolen moment. Her lips are parted and her eyelashes are moist. It feels like a shot straight to the heart. She takes his breath away.  
  
_Gods,_ he thinks he loves her.  
  
*  
  
Arya is exactly where she shouldn't be. Near the main door and armed.

There is no gentle way to send her away and above all there is no time. Therefore he advances towards her, ready to grab hold of her and use force if necessary.

"Why are you here? You should be-"  
  
She gives him no way to finish. Her glare is in itself a confirmation of all his fears. _If you think I'll stay in the rear, you're a fool_.

"Don't waste your breath," she interrupts him. "Sansa tried too. I'll stay here. I don't need anyone's permission."

"I'm trying to protect you!"  
  
"Why? During this battle or after, we could all die. I will fight."  
  
She's adamant. Jon passes a hand over his face. For the first time that night he feels real terror. Not for the thought of dying, but of losing all that is dear to him. "Just... please be careful. You never saw them. It may be a shock at first."  
  
"I've seen scarier things." Arya shrugs and looks around. "Where is Ghost?"  
  
"I left him with Sansa."  
  
"Will you ride one of the dragons?"  
  
Jon hesitates. He sees again Daenerys' furious expression. "I don't think." Then he hears Sansa's pained voice. The contrast fills him with remorse and something else. "After the battle there is something I have to tell you."  
  
Arya stops training with her new weapon - a kind of stick-spear - and narrows her eyes, carefully assessing him. "It's about aunt Lyanna?"  
  
A part inside him seems to curl up under the weight that the question entails.  
  
"How do you-?"  
  
Arya doesn't flinch. A reaction that should disconcert him if it wasn't that...  
  
"I'll have to tell Sansa too." In his own ears, his voice sounds miserable and disheartened. "I guess she'll probably yell at me."  
  
"Oh. She knows. We have know for a while."  
  
Jon blinks, stunned.  
  
Arya stares at him like he is an idiot. Faced with his prolonged silence, she wields her spear in a single fluid movement. She rolls her eyes. "What did you expect? You're one of us. We're a pack. You better stay alive." She gives him a slight hit on the shoulder. "Sansa would never forgive you. And the same goes for me."


End file.
